A Little Unwell
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PostRENT] Roger may be going crazy, but he sure as hell isn't going to admit it... at least not until Mark forces him to see it. Feeling Electric crossover. [One shot]


**Disclaimer: **Rent and Feeling Electric are not mine. Nor are Roger, Mark, Benny, or Dr. Madden, much as I love them all.  
**A/N: **This would be the sequel to "If You Open Your Eyes", but I think you can understand it without reading that. It's also a Feeling Electric crossover, but again, you don't have to know Feeling Electric to understand it. And this won second place in challenge #100 at speedrent.

* * *

_"Take your AZT."_

Mark's voice echoed in Roger's head, clear and distinct as it always was, though a little hollow, like it were echoing down a hallway. Still, it was strange to hear it so clearly when Mark had been dead for over a year and a half now. Maybe it was just proof that he really was crazy, that maybe he needed that therapist Benny had sent him to after all. Perhaps.

A wry, sarcastic smile touched Roger's lips as he sat there on the edge of the table in the middle of the loft, his legs hanging over the side. Well, if it was a sign of madness, he'd just have to make sure not to tell his friends about it when they came to check on him, _whenever_ they did. Well, Maureen wouldn't care, but Joanne, or Benny? They would send him back to the shrink immediately. _So what if I'm hearing voices? It's not like I'm thinking about killing myself or anything. That would be a reason to send me to a shrink. This, this is…_

He didn't complete the thought. He'd been rolling a little plastic bottle between his hands, and the single pill in it made a hollow, empty rattling sound as it bounced around inside. The last of his AZT. Roger let his gaze fall to the bottle, and he stared at it thoughtfully as he continued playing with it, listening to the one lonely pill rattling around.

_"Take your AZT."_

Roger grimaced and twisted the cap of the bottle open, upturned it to deposit the remaining pill into his hand, and swallowed it quickly without water, now looking silently at the empty bottle. He screwed the cap back on, tossed the bottle in the air idly, caught it… No rattling this time, nothing but silence. He didn't bother thinking about when he'd get around to buying more, or if he would at all. It would be easier not to bother, he knew. Just not give a crap, lie if anyone asked him about it, and then maybe he wouldn't have to stick around here much longer. Die and get to see April, Angel, Collins, Mimi… Mark.

Then again, who was he kidding? Roger didn't believe in heaven, didn't believe in anything after death but _death_. He just wanted to get away from this so he could escape the pain of being alone, of remembering. Maybe after that, death wouldn't be so bad.

Roger smirked and slid off the table. And maybe he was crazy after all, and maybe his friends would have thought this suicidal, albeit a less direct route than he could have taken. And there were the protests from the Mark-shaped space in the back of his head that insisted he was being an idiot, he had to get more medicine, he had to take care of himself, all of which Roger ignored. It didn't matter what Mark would have said, because the fact remained that Mark was dead, and with him the last piece of the world Roger had cared about. Hell, for the past year and a half Roger wasn't sure he'd been alive at all himself—might as well be dead, just a shadow, a lonely ghost walking through this empty loft, lost in this place where he used to be alive.

So he ignored all sense, all the mental voices—his own thoughts, Mark's imagined words, whatever—and quietly walked into the bedroom that had been Mark's to drag out the projector and a few reels of Mark's films and lose himself in the past.

* * *

_They'd let him ride in the ambulance with Mark—wanted to put him in a separate ambulance, make sure he wasn't injured himself, and for a while they had tried to get him on a stretcher, insisting he might have a damaged spinal cord, broken bones, whatever, but finally gave in when Roger flatly refused to go anywhere without Mark. So he'd stood there in the ambulance beside Mark and tried to stay out of the way of the paramedics, completely focused on his friend as he pleaded with him to open his eyes, look at him. His breathing came in painful, halting gasps, and he hadn't shown any sign of being truly conscious since the paramedics pulled him out of the crushed car, but Mark was stronger than this, Mark could survive this… _

In some abstract way, Roger knew he was dreaming. It was the same nightmare that haunted him every night, stuck with him through the day even when he was awake. He knew exactly how this all would go, knew how it would end, but every time he played it out just the same, hoping it would change, hoping that this time when he opened his eyes things would be different.

"Roger."

_The voice didn't go unheard, but it faded into the background of Roger's dream, so he didn't particularly note it as the scene played out the same way it had every other time. The ambulance stopped with a lurch that nearly made Roger topple over, unbalanced, but he caught himself on the edge of Mark's stretcher. The doors opened, the paramedics rolled the stretcher out and Roger followed as far as they would let him, to the doors of the ICU and no further. As he stood there trembling, staring at the closed doors, lost and terrified and God he couldn't lose Mark, he couldn't…_

"Hey, Roger!"

_There were a couple doctors who wanted to check him out, make sure he hadn't been hurt in the crash, but he wouldn't let them, refused to go anywhere until he was assured Mark was okay, until he could see him again. Or until another doctor came out, avoiding meeting his eyes, his voice low and quiet. "You're Roger Davis? I'm sorry, but your friend—"_

"Roger, unlock the damn door!"

Roger woke with a start, blinking sleepily as his mind slowly shifted from the dream to reality. Sunlight shone through the windows of the loft, entirely too bright. And it was much too hot in here, actually, Roger thought as he sat up, setting aside Mark's old striped scarf—he'd been using it as a pillow, having fallen asleep on the couch some time last night. _What time is it?_ he wondered, rubbing at his face.

"Roger?"

Right. And Benny was at the door, for whatever reason. Just great. It seemed like too much of an effort to push himself off the couch and walk to the door, when he'd rather just lay back down and go back to sleep, but he did, somewhat reluctantly. He eyed Benny unhappily after yanking open the door. "Since when do you bother _asking_ to come in? Don't you have a key?"

Benny rolled his eyes and stepped past Roger, not in the least put off by his less than friendly attitude. It wasn't like that was anything _new_, coming from Roger. "I lost it. What took you so long?"

"I was _sleeping_," Roger told him irritably, and Benny frowned at him.

"It's three in the afternoon."

"Is it?" Roger glanced over at the clock to confirm it, and blinked in surprise upon realizing that Benny was right. "Huh. So what do you want, Benny?" He left the door standing open and walked over to sit on the couch again, watching his landlord/not-quite-friend with an air of half-concealed hostility. It wasn't that he really hated Benny the way he used to—the hostility at this point was just a habit, easier to indulge than to suppress.

Benny looked back at him in silence for some time, his eyes quite obviously taking in the projector and film reels still sitting by the couch from last night, Roger's unkempt appearance, and finally Mark's scarf on the couch beside Roger. Roger folded his arms over his chest defensively as Benny began to speak. "I _came_ because I got a phone call the other day to tell me you haven't been to your last… well, several appointments with Dr. Madden."

Roger shot him a glare. "And this surprises you? I don't want to—"

Benny ignored him and continued talking until Roger gave up protesting for the moment. "So I thought I should come over to make sure you're still alive. You know, eating. Sleeping. Taking your meds. That sort of thing."

Roger snorted derisively, glancing out the window as if searching for an escape, though he knew he wouldn't find one. "I'm not a child, Benny. I can take care of myself."

"Right," Benny answered sarcastically. "Which would be why I pay all your bills. And why you're basically a hermit unless someone drags you out of the house. Admit it, Roger, you're going crazy here, and you're not fooling anyone. You have to get out of the house, and you have to go talk to Dr. Madden, before you really lose it."

"I'm not crazy," Roger muttered irritably, still diverting his gaze from meeting Benny's.

_"You're not?"_ the Mark-voice always in the back of his head responded. _"You're only trying to kill yourself by not taking your AZT. Near-suicidal seems to qualify as crazy."_

Roger ignored that voice, focusing instead on Benny as he said levelly, "You don't leave the house, you're sleeping until three in the afternoon… You're depressed."

"I'm not depressed. I'm… giddy!"

Benny raised an eyebrow at him. "Roger, I don't think that word has ever been applicable to you in your _life_, and certainly not now." He hesitated a moment, and then sighed, pulling some money from his pocket and setting it on the coffee table in front of Roger, who eyed it suspiciously. "I can't stick around here long, I just came to check on you. Go buy some food or something. Medicine if you're running low. And…"

He trailed off for a moment, and Roger narrowed his eyes. "And _what_?"

"I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Madden for today, at five. Please go?"

Roger sneered. "I'll think about it," he said quietly, in that tone that meant precisely the opposite, that there was no way in hell he would go and it was not even a matter under consideration. He said nothing more, merely watched Benny in that confrontational manner that said rather clearly, _Well, are you done?_

Of course, Benny knew exactly what Roger had meant, and rolled his eyes, turning away from him and starting toward the door. "Fine. But if you're not going to go, at least take care of yourself, alright? Mark would want you to."

Roger stared after him for a while, and only after the door was closed and Benny was probably down the stairs and out of the building did he mutter resentfully, "How the hell do you know what Mark would want?"

_"He's right, you know."_

The voice gave Roger a bit of a start, but after a moment he grimaced and curled in on himself, huddling at the far end of the couch as if that would make the voice leave him alone. "No he's not," he muttered. "He's not right, because you're not real. You're just a figment of my imagination, and you're going away now, because you're not Mark. You're not." Even if it sounded like Mark, and said the things he would say, and if he closed his eyes he could so clearly imagine him standing there just _looking_ at him with those blue, blue eyes, almost accusing and a little hurt and very worried…

_"You should go talk to that therapist. It'll be good for you."_

"I don't need it," Roger muttered. "I don't need or want a damn shrink, and the only crazy thing about me is hearing _you_ because you won't fucking go away." He could put on some music, turn it up as loud as he could in an attempt to drown out Mark, but then he wouldn't be able to hear _himself_ think, and it might not drown Mark out after all, just give him a headache. This wasn't working. He wasn't crazy, he was perfectly sane, he was perfectly stable, or at least as much as he had ever been, and he didn't need a shrink, he just needed to stop thinking about his best friend, stop hearing his voice in his head, stop imagining his ghost standing in front of him and…

_"Roger. Please go. Today, you're just deciding to passively let yourself die by not taking your medicine."_

"I'm not—"

_"Tomorrow, and the day after, you'll be getting worse, and before you know it you'll be—"_

"I'll be fine."

_"—actually trying to kill yourself however you decide to do it, and—"_

"I will _not_! I'm not suicidal, I just—"

_"—you dying won't make anything better, and you know it, so—"_

"You don't know, you never had to do this, so don't you tell me—"

_"—find someone to help you before you completely lose it and do something you and everyone else is going to regret."_

"Oh, just shut the _fuck_ up!" Roger shouted abruptly, the volume of his voice startling even himself as he reached for the closest object to hand and threw it across the room at where he imagined Mark would be standing. There was a loud crash as it landed, and Roger flinched, looking up to see one of Mark's film reels rolling across the ground in a slow, lazy circle before toppling over and falling on its side with another loud noise that made Roger flinch once more. He could only stare at it for a moment, and for that moment even Mark's voice in his head was silent as well, as if he'd shocked it into silence with that violent action. Hell, he'd shocked himself a little. Arguing with a hallucination was one thing. Throwing things at it reached an entirely different level of insanity.

"Maybe I am crazy," he muttered softly.

Mark had the grace not to respond to that comment, but the silence still had an odd air of confirmation to it.

And so, two and a half hours later, he found himself stepping into the office he couldn't wait to get out of the last time he was there, tense and uncomfortable and trying to ignore the hovering presence of Mark just behind him. Not really there, of course, but it had _followed_ him the whole way here, on the subway, down the street, a fuzzy imagined presence glimpsed out of the corner of his eye, and Roger wasn't sure if it would be more clear if he turned to look at it straight on, because he hadn't dared try. It didn't help that, when the doctor looked up from his desk, Roger flinched upon meeting his eyes. God, they were just like Mark's…

"Roger," Madden said, clearly a little startled to see him there, but he smiled quickly, concealing that. "I was starting to think I wouldn't be seeing you again. Come in and tell me what's going on."

Roger stood there in the doorway for a moment, his hands shoved in his pockets, his posture stiff and awkward. Finally, he stepped inside and collapsed onto the couch, meeting Dr. Madden's eyes steadily as he said, "My best friend's ghost thinks I'm crazy. I'm starting to agree with him."


End file.
